As I watch a televised game between the Giants and Nationals at San Francisco’s Oracle Park, the announcers flashback to the historic 2007 moment when slugger Barry Bonds hit his 756th home run against Nationals pitcher Mike Bacsic, breaking Hank Aaron’s all-time record.
It was a stunning achievement by a Hall-of-Fame-worthy player, who would set the final home run tally at 765, and hold the all-time single-season record of 73 set in 2001, records which may never be broken.
“It’s a shame they haven’t put Barry Bonds into the Baseball Hall of Fame yet,” I say to my wife sitting next to me on the sofa.
Lilly shrugs. “Well, yeah, you know, he will never be voted in, they will always hold it against him. He earned it; he should be in the hall.”
“I agree. Even though he said he didn’t use them, and there’s no proof he ever did,” I say.
My stomach growls. “Hey babe, I’m hungry. I’ll pause the game to get a snack.” I look for the remote; it’s not in its usual place on the end table. “Where’s the remote?”
Lilly waves the remote in her right hand. “You gave it to me, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember,” I lie. The inning ends in a double play and goes to commercials, so there’s no need to pause. “You know, it’s because they accused him of using all those hemorrhoids and stuff.” As soon as I say it, I know it’s not the right word.
“Hemorrhoids?” Lilly snickers.
I wink at Lilly. “Uh, no, I meant asteroids.” I know that isn’t the right word either, but I’m too chagrined to admit it.
Lilly giggles. “Asteroids? Oh, my gosh!”
“Just playing with you,” I laugh over my shoulder as I walk to the kitchen. Wait, what is the right word? I know it, but it escapes me. It’s hiding in a recess of my brain somewhere, just beyond my grasp, but I can’t find it. I’m stumped. Come on, think, think, think. I know it ends with “roids,” but that’s all I know.
I fill a bowl with chips and ranch dip, and set it on the coffee table in the living room. The game’s back on, but I’ve lost interest because I still can’t think of the word, and I’m really concerned. Am I losing my mind? I can’t let her think I don’t know the right word. I need to stall for more time. “Hey babe, would you like another Bloody Maria?”
“Yes, please,” Lilly answers. “And make it extra strong this time with more tequila.”
“Will do.” I return to the kitchen and mentally run through every “roid,” word I can muster as I slowly prepare the drinks: deltoid, android, fibroid, rheumatoid, anthropoid, planetoid, devoid, annoyed, avoid, toy, oy…no no no!
My pulse quickens, and I panic. My mind is mush; I can’t think. What’s wrong with me? Come on, dummy, it’s in there somewhere, you know the word, grab it!
I return to the living room and hand Lilly her drink. “Did you get lost?” she smirks. “I almost went looking for you.” She sips the drink and moans: “Umm hmm…aah…ooh…oh my gosh…this is so freaking good!”
I can’t deny that the way she gushes over the drink is pretty sexy, but I can’t think about that right now. I plop down on the sofa next to her, my drink in hand, perplexed by that word I can’t remember.
Lilly is absorbed in the game, scrutinizing every pitch and play. I barely notice as I rack my brain for the word that evades me. I place my drink on the coffee table, pick up my phone, and tilt the screen towards me, just enough that she can’t see it. In the search bar I type: “words that end with roid.”
A long list of words appears, some of which I’ve already thought of and many I haven’t. I scan the list. There it is, the elusive word suddenly as obvious as can be: “steroids.”
Sheesh! People accused Barry Bonds of using steroids, not asteroids or hemorrhoids. I knew that. But why couldn’t I think of it? Maybe I’m getting old, but still. Do I have early-onset dementia or something? Am I losing my mind?
I ponder, perplexed but strangely amused. I shouldn’t tell her; it will make me look stupid. But I’m concerned about my mental health. It’s not the first time my memory has failed me, and it seems to happen more often these days. But it’s also kind of funny.
“Hey, honey, can you pause the game for a second? I’ve got to tattle on myself.”
Lilly pauses the game and looks at me, her eyebrows raised expectantly. “I love when you rat yourself out. Shoot.”
“So…remember a few minutes ago when I was joking with you about Barry Bonds using hemorrhoids and asteroids?”
“Yes, of course. It was funny. But I knew what you meant.”
“Well, to be honest, I said it because I couldn’t remember the word ‘steroids’ for the life of me. It’s like I knew it, and it was right there but just out of reach, and I couldn’t grab it, and I panicked a little. Am I losing my mind? Dementia runs in my family, and I’m kind of afraid it might be happening to me.”
Lilly gives me a reassuring smile and squeezes my hand. “No, babe, you’re not losing your mind. It happens to all of us, even me sometimes.”
“Really? You’ve never told me that before.”
“Of course, honey. It’s just a part of being human, getting older, maybe some stress, being worried, or whatever. I don’t think it’s anything to worry about, and you eventually remembered the word.”
“Yeah, well, no, that’s the problem, I didn’t remember. I had to ask Mr. Google for help. See?” I show her the search bar history on my phone: at the top of the list is “words that end with roid.”
She cups her hand to her mouth to suppress a giggle, then bursts into unrestrained laughter as she loses control. “Oh my god,” she snorts, “that’s the funniest thing ever.” Her laughter is contagious; it infects me, and we laugh together until we’re both clutching our sides and gasping for breath.
After several minutes, the laughter subsides, and Lilly wipes tears from her eyes. “Oh wow, that was hilarious. I haven’t laughed that hard in years. Thanks babe, for…tattling.”
“Uh huh,” I say as I wipe my own eyes. “There’s something liberating about being able to laugh at yourself, and not take yourself so seriously.” My mind sobers. “But I am concerned about my memory. It scares me, especially as I’m getting older.”
“Look, like I said, I think it’s normal; you have it together in almost every other way, big and small. Almost.” Lilly smirks as she playfully nudges me with her elbow. At least you knew you knew the word, and you remembered it eventually, even if you needed a little help.
“Yeah, but…” I protest, as Lilly interrupts. “Cut yourself some slack, my love, you’re not losing your mind. And even if you do, I promise you will never lose me.”
Lilly gives me a kiss and snuggles up to me as the game plays in the background, but my mind is elsewhere. I think of how a sports legend like Barry Bonds can inspire through extraordinary record-breaking feats, yet cause controversy by purported ethical choices as well.
I think of how ordinary human traits like forgetfulness and doubt can evoke fear and laughter at the most unexpected times. I realize that, whether a superstar or mortal, we are all human at our core; we are all capable of greatness and failure, and we all travel similar paths on the same planet.
I hold Lilly tight, and close my eyes. I don’t know what my future holds, and I don’t know if my memory lapse is a cause for concern. But it’s moments like these that define our humanity, keep us humble, and teach us to laugh and not to take ourselves too seriously. It reminds us to enjoy the game — be it baseball or life — and cherish each other through the unexpected twists and turns of the journey along the way.
